Bleed
by Your Regular Belle
Summary: When Ptolemy Beckett - crippled with Haemophilia and the absolute love of Dana's life - is drawn at the reaping, it takes less than a second for her to make the decision to join him. 74th Hunger Games re-write. Katniss and Peeta included.
1. Haemophilia

**Title:** Bleed

**Summary**: When Ptolemy Beckett - the absolute love of Dana's life, and crippled with Haemophilia B - is drawn at the reaping, it takes less than a second for her to make the decision to join him. 75th Games re-write. Katniss and Peeta included.

**Rating:** M for Hunger Games gore and teen sensuality. Will be references to sex and similar mature topics, but no graphic descriptions.

**A ****note ****on ****names:** Dana is pronounced as if it rhymes with 'car-na.' Not 'day-na.' Ptolemy is spelt with a silent P, and is thus, 'Toh-la-mee.'

**IMPORTANT ****information ****about ****Haemophilia ****B:**Haemophilia B is a blood clotting disorder caused by a mutation of the Factor IX gene, leading to a deficiency of Factor IX (The blood clotting factor). People suffering from Haemophilia B have to be incredibly careful about what they do – one cut, one scratch, a nosebleed or one little bump of the knee can be fatal. Internal bleeding as a result of a bump, and the subsequent swelling and pressure on nerve endings, is agonising, and incredibly hindering. It can leave a sufferer without the ability to walk for, in some cases, years. Nowadays there is a cure, but it used to be as late as the 1930's that Haemophiliacs would not often live past adolescence. I believe this would also be the case in District Eleven around the time of the 75th Hunger Games.

My information regarding Haemophilia comes from reliable sources, and is knowledge pre-existing the writing of this story.

Random fact for those interested; Alexei Romanov – the last Tsesarevich of Russia and son of Tsar Nicholas II – suffered from Haemophilia B.

**Word ****Count ****(Story ****only): **2449

**My first Hunger Games fan fiction. Please be gentle.**

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><p><strong>.: Chapter One – Haemophilia:. <strong>

I am out of my house and up the road as soon as I hear the news.

Ptolemy doesn't live too near to me – about twenty minutes walking distance – but my pace is one of a sprint regardless, my feet pounding against the dusty dirt track to the same beat of my galloping heart. I'm not unfit - far from it on the contrary; I have always made good care to keep myself in shape for when occasion calls for me to be. For times like now, for instance, when Ptolemy has one of his attacks.

I gather about me a lot of attention as I run, as few people do in District Eleven if they can help it. It only worsens the hunger pangs, but I am beyond caring. The thought of Ptolemy's certain agony is more than enough to keep me going.

I can hear his cries even as I stagger up to his front door, crashing through without even need to knock. The pale face of Kernel Beckett, his younger brother at fourteen years old, snaps anxiously towards my entrance, his eyes ringed with red and brimming with tears.

"What happened," I gasp, fighting off near asphyxiation as I feel my lungs shrivel and the blood throbs in my head. My long blonde hair, free from it's usual tight ponytail, sticks to my sweaty cheeks and forehead, and my tongue lies heavy and dry in my mouth. I hadn't bothered to grab any water before I left.

"He tripped down the stairs," Kernel snivels, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. "Yesterday. We thought he was going to be okay but the swelling started this morning…" He trails off, lower lip trembling.

I push past him and into what the Beckett's cynically deem their 'living room,' where I can hear a commotion.

Ptolemy lies sprawled across what looks like a scraping together of all the sheets, pillows and mattresses that the Beckett's own – which is not particularly many– his parents kneeling at his side. His face is white and bloodless, sheered in sweat, his lips a chapped and waxy yellow. His gaze fixes unseeing on the shabby ceiling, eyeballs rolling further back in his head as he contorts in agony, his hands fisting tightly into the sheets either side and his mouth twisting as he shrieks. He is completely naked apart from a semi-translucent cloth thrown over his groin, and his right leg is braced awkwardly straight, an immense ball-like swelling and bruising around the knee already apparent to me from the doorway.

"Oh Ptolemy," I moan quietly, hastening to his side and dropping to my knees. "Oh baby, come here."

I gently wind an arm around his sweaty and shuddering neck and attempt to sit him more upright, pulling at surrounding sheets to support him. He hisses at the movement, spittle bubbling at his lips as his face scrunches in pain, and I feel his mother grab at my arm.

"Dana! What are you doing! Can't you see how you're hurting him!"

"I know, Mrs. Beckett, I know. But we need to sit him up. Improve his circulation. It might help."

Pip Beckett's hands flutter around my own as I slowly pull Ptolemy up until he is no longer laying horizontal, and wrap my arm more firmly around his back.

"There you go, baby," I murmur to him gently. "Don't worry. I'm here."

He gives a whimper and leans his weight into my own, his sweaty forehead coming to rest in the crook of my neck. I kiss it tenderly and flinch at the heat. He is burning up already.

"Dana." He rasps quietly, grasping feebly at my other hand with his own. "Dana, it hurts."

"I know," I whisper, stroking my fingers through his thick dark curls, damp with sweat, as if this would somehow alleviate the pain. "I know."

His parents watch on, their faces pictures of distress and unrestrained fear. I know we are all thinking in tune as we always are when Ptolemy has his attacks; will this one be his last?

Ptolemy suffers from Haemophilia B; a rare affliction in which his blood is missing the vital clotting factor needed in every human being to staunch a flow of blood. Cuts on the surface aren't so much the problem; no these can usually be solved with the immediate application of pressure and elevation of the part in question. The real problem is when Ptolemy bleeds from the _inside_ – a place nobody but a doctor can reach.

It doesn't take much – a small bump is all that is needed for chaos to ensue, for instead of simply bruising like a normal person Ptolemy's blood leaks under the surface and swells until the pressure on his skin is too high for it to possibly to distend any further. At this point a number of things happen; firstly, the corrosives in his blood begin to attack his bones and muscle fibres, weakening them over time. Secondly, the pressure of the swelling on joints (where the leakage usually occurs) and his nerve endings inflicts upon him agony through which nobody should ever have to suffer. Other consequences are a rocketing fever and a near-insane stupor.

The only other haemophiliac I have known is Ptolemy's aunt, and she tells me it is more painful than childbirth and toothache combined.

What Ptolemy really needs is a factor IX treatment, which replenishes the missing clotting factor and keeps it steady for a month or two. With District Eleven being at my guess the poorest district in Panem, he doesn't see that treatment very often.

Most Haemophiliacs don't live to see the age of twenty. In our conditions, at seventeen Ptolemy is lucky to have made it so long.

"Have you alerted the medicals?" I whisper to Pip after a moment, and she nods.

"Yes. But it doesn't really matter, does it? They rarely ever come."

They used to, but I think they've grown tired of attempting to provide for Ptolemy. What is he to them anyway, but one worthless boy so easily replaced? He may be nothing to them but he is everything in the world to those that love him. His family and myself.

He shudders in my arms as a fresh wave of agony rolls over him, and his eyes clench shut. I take this opportunity to let a tear or two escape when he won't see them. I notice his parents do the same.

* * *

><p>An hour or so later and Ptolemy has slipped into a fever-induced slumber and I use this blessing to examine his leg a little closer.<p>

It's bad – _really _bad. Reminiscent of his attack about five years ago now, after which he wasn't able to walk without assistance for over a year. He was twelve then so it wasn't so hard to manage. I don't know what we'll do this time.

A swollen ball the size of an orange grows on his knee, and his skin is shiny and hard as it near splits with the pressure. He has a splint strapped to either side in an attempt to compress it, but that's only a half-efficient treatment. At this point a trained doctor would be using electro-muscular stimulation, Factor IX, and a healthy dose of Morphine, but we don't have access to any of that.

I press my palm against his forehead and take his temperature again… It might just be wishful thinking but it feels a bit cooler. I feel a twinge of hope play at my stomach.

I look up as I hear the door creak and Kernel trips in, his eyes still red.

"Is he going to be okay?" He whispers, chewing at his thumb and staring at his brother with wide eyes. I choose to nod.

"Yeah. I think so." Define 'okay.'

He squats down and shuffles over, before gently taking Ptolemy's left hand – the right still clammily encasing my own. He sniffs repeatedly.

"Here," I mutter, passing him a piece of cloth to wipe his nose with. He takes it gratefully.

"It's the reaping soon," he comments unnecessarily, after a moment, and I wonder why he thought that would be a good topic changer.

"Yes."

"Have you taken out a tesserae?"

"Of course. Have you?"

He nods. Usually the younger kids wouldn't have to do this as it's usually the responsibility of the elder ones. Mr. and Mrs. Beckett hedge that Kernel would have more of a change if he were called up than Ptolemy, which is probably true. The fact that Ptolemy is entered into the draw only six times out of a possible twenty-plus has me breathing a little easier each time the reaping comes round.

But then Kernel says something else.

"Ptolemy's got one this year too."

"What?" I snap, glancing in his direction sharply.

"Yeah." He mumbles. "Mum and Dad put him up for one."

"But…" I shake my head. "But you manage with just yours, right? I mean, I know it's hard but…" I search for the words. "If Ptolemy gets called up he has _no __chance._Your parents _know _that, right?"

"They do," he nods, looking uncomfortable. "But… I mean. They just said that it was unfair for me to have such a high chance every year."

"But you're not ill," I emphasise, and I feel a little bit guilty. It _is_hard on Kernel to have so many tickets in the box every year, but he doesn't have _haemophilia._

Kernel looks at me a little bitterly.

"I would still die, Dana. And I don't want to die yet. I know you don't care for me like my brother but I shouldn't have to bear all the responsibility. I'm only fourteen."

"It's not that I don't care for you…" I protest, but he has sort of hit the spot. I do love little Kernel as my boyfriend's brother, but not like I _love _Ptolemy.

We had always been best friends – since we were little ones ourselves. Being a haemophiliac Ptolemy could never join in the fun and games with the little boys his age, and so was almost always on his own. I remember how he used to sit under the withered old apple tree in the school garden, watching on enviously as us other kids played around with a ball or wrestled together in the dirt. It was an impulse decision of mine to join him one afternoon that led to where we are now. I taught him how to make 'daisy chains,' (or weed chains as they often were) and he taught me how to imagine other worlds. I read to him during his attacks, and even made him his very own walking stick out of broken field-tool. Then, about two years ago, everything changed when he kissed me so sweetly on the scrubby patch of grass that counts for his 'garden,' round the back of his house, and we've been kissing every since.

Of course I'm not foolish. I know that, as dreamlike as it sounds, Ptolemy's relationship and mine is hardly the thing of fairytales. I'm always consciously aware of how easily he could be taken from me, and how more and more likely that grows as the months go by.

I know that, even if he does manage to live to a ripe old age, the prospects of having a family between us is near impossible. In fact, our relationship would most likely never be able to progress much further than kissing and a bit of heavy (but very gentle) petting.

We could never have sex – not with his condition. It's a risk that I would never be willing to take. It's not much of a problem as of yet seeing as we're still relishing in the pleasure brought about by a bit of passionate (but again, very gentle) lip action, and I don't particularly think it ever will be.

Ptolemy knows his limitations and so do I.

I drift out of my musings to find that Kernel has slipped away. Unsurprising considering the nature of our conversation. I sigh, and pull my fingers through Ptolemy's black curls, watching as his eyelids flutter with the disturbance.

"I love you," I whisper, grazing my lips over his cheeks and forehead, before settling for a very light kiss. "I really do."

The idea of Ptolemy having a tesserae disturbs and angers me, but it's not too bad when I think about it. This is only his first time with one, and so his name is only going in the draw… seven times in total. Six for every year he has been a part of the reaping, and one for a tesserae.

Seven. It's nothing, not really. Seven slips of paper out of thousands of thousands. Statistically, it's almost safe to say that Ptolemy doesn't even have a chance. I'm worrying for nothing – upsetting Kernel for nothing.

The odds are in Ptolemy's favour, and that's what I have to keep telling myself.

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><p><strong>Reviews would be much appreciated. Thank you.<strong>


	2. Torment

**Important A/N at the bottom. Thanks for the reviews guys. **

**Word****Count: **2729

**Profanity Warning – Begins with F… **

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><p><strong>.: Chapter Two – Torment :.<strong>

When I wake the next morning I lie tangled and uncomfortable on the Beckett's wooden floor, the sheets having slipped from underneath me and my clothes twisted and tight. Ptolemy hasn't really shifted and at first glance he doesn't look any better then when he did last night. His eyes look puffy and red, and his cheeks are sticky and shiny. He must have started crying again in his sleep. I wrap my palm over his forehead and check his temperature; so much for 'recovery.' It's gone straight back up.

I stumble to my feet and make my way to the kitchen, still disorientated. The 'kitchen' consists of a stove and open fire, with a couple of banged up looking cupboards, and a very bare pantry. There's a tap in the corner though where we get our water from and surprisingly it's relatively consistent. The Peacekeepers must realise that whilst we can still work to some extent on an empty stomach, we can't if we're thirsty. I turn it on and stick my hand under; it's pretty much lukewarm, but it will have to do. I grab a clean cloth from a pile in the corner and douse it under, before returning to the living room and gently laying it over Ptolemy's head. He shifts slightly, but doesn't wake.

I hear a sound at the door and turn; Its Mrs. Beckett, looking pale and dishevelled, and like she didn't get a second of sleep.

"How is he?" She asks, coming over and dropping to his side. She feels the cloth on his head and looks pained.

"He's burning up. I just put that on."

She nods slowly, unsurely, and places her hand gently on his cheeks. Her eyes well up with tears.

"I'm sorry," she sniffs, blinking fast. I say nothing. I'm not sure if I can.

"Here," she says after a moment, noticing he's still covered with the sheets. "They wont be helping. Help me untangle him."

We gently pull the sheets from over him, moving his limbs as carefully as we can so as not to inadvertently make him feel any worse. I untangle a sheet from where it is trapped under his arm and pull it back down off his chest, tucking it at his other side. I look at him for a moment – he's deathly pale, with the exception of his neck and cheeks, which are tomato red. His lips look worse than they did the night before, dryer, and waxier, and his breathing sounds laboured. His Adam's apple bobs uncomfortably with every struggled swallow.

Mrs. Beckett struggles at the blanket covering his lower self, and I scoot over to help. This is trickier – the sheet is caught around his leg, which still lies swollen and purple, and we decided not to move it. Mrs. Beckett pulls it down from the rest of him though, and I quickly look away.

He may be my boyfriend but looking at him naked when he's not aware of it isn't in my taste.

"That should help a little bit." She murmurs, before glancing up at me, still looking elsewhere.

"It's alright Dana. You don't have to act like that for his mother's sake. You're his girlfriend – I know you've seen it all before."

I shift uncomfortably. Thing is, I haven't.

She sighs and flicks a single sheet back over his exposure, and I feel a little more comfortable.

There's a knock at the doorframe and we both look over.

Mr. Beckett – or Husk to those who know him – stands at the door, dressed and ready for another gruelling day at the fields in a filthy shirt falling apart at the seams, and thin trousers regardless of the freezing weather. Mrs. Beckett glances over at me, and looks uncomfortable.

"What?" I ask, and Husk holds out his hand. Pip ducks her head apologetically.

"Come on, Dana. We've got work to do," Husk tells me gruffly, and it takes a moment for me to register what he's saying.

And then I stare at him open mouthed.

"You're kidding me, right? I'm not going _anywhere_."

"Yes you are," he says firmly, and he strides over. His eyes are kind but his expression is hard as he pulls me to my feet. I attempt to resist and he clamps his bear-like hands down on my arms, almost enough for it to be painful.

"Don't be stupid Dana," he scolds me, holding me steady. "I know it's hard but we've got to go. It's a miracle Pip's been allowed a day off herself."

"You don't understand - " I start, struggling, and he looks astonished, and then angry.

"I don't understand? I'm his damn _father _Dana. Do you think I want to leave him any more than you do?" He pulls me sharply towards the door. "Don't make us late, sweetheart."

"No wait – " I try desperately, pulling back. "You go. I wont. I'm not leaving him. Not when he's this bad. _Please.__"_

"Dana, stop the bravado. If you skip a day the Peacekeepers will put a bullet through your head – you know that."

"Well let them!"

He shakes me sharply, and it hurts.

"Don't be stupid! What good can you do for my son if you are dead, huh?"

I look down at Ptolemy and feel tears burning at the back of my eyes. I know what I want to say to Husk, but I can't bring myself to do it. I want to scream and shout that Ptolemy could be dead within a few hours, and that I want to be there with him. I want to tell him that this is worse than before, and that I have this… this… _feeling_ that Ptolemy _isn__'__t_ going to be okay.

I look up at Husk and meet his eyes, red and swollen from shedding his own tears. I decide I don't think I need to tell him. I decide that I think he already knows - That he's already thinking along the same lines.

_Fuck_ District Eleven and its rules. _Fuck_ the fact that spending the day with my sick boyfriend would get me killed.

I sag in defeat, and let him Husk take me with him. Walking out of that room and out of the house hurts more than I can aptly describe, and I can't shake the feeling that this could be the last time I see Ptolemy alive.

We have to run to keep our time and I'm crying as I do. My body aches from my uncomfortable night on the floor, and my stomach burns from about two days lack of food. My head pounds from crying out all my water, and my heart feels like someone is tearing into it with talons. Husk stops me as we near the omnipresent plantations and cleans me up with his sleeve. He hands me a cord to tie up my hair with, and I pull it up into a ponytail, my fingers shaking as I run them through my hair.

"Be strong." He whispers, before leading me through to the fields after him, passing through the guarded gate with the deadly electrified wire across the top - More for keeping us in then for keeping 'thieves' out, as far as I'm concerned.

"Names," A youngish peacekeeper drones in bored tones, and I notice that he is the same guy that we have every morning for inspection. I guess he just can't be bothered with remembering us.

"Husk Beckett. Dana Yakobovitch."

The peacekeeper looks up at me suddenly and stares intently, his icy blue eyes narrowing in recognition of something.

"Where were you last night?" He demands, and I'm only slightly surprised that he asks. "I've got you down on file as being absent from your home. Where were you?"

"She was with us," Beckett answerers, his jaw set firm. A muscle twitching is his neck is the only outward sign of his anxiety. A knot of concern plays at my own stomach.

"And why is that?"

"She knows my so-" Beckett starts, but the Peacekeeper cuts him off abruptly.

"I was asking her."

My mouth goes dry and my heart thuds. I knew I was taking a risk staying out after curfew without application, but I didn't know how frightening it would be to have to explain. I sure do now.

"I know his son – well, I'm his… fiancé." A small lie. It's better than saying girlfriend. Husk will understand. "And he was ill last night. He has haemophilia and he was having an attack so I went over to help."

I struggle to keep my voice steady, eyeing the hefty gun strapped to the Peacekeepers belt. He examines me for a few tense moments, and my heart rockets in my chest. Despite the cold temperature I feel a sweat breaking out on my back and forehead.

"Fine." He snaps, noting something down by what I presume is my name. I don't know what. I never cottoned on how to read. He motions for Husk and I to pass through, and my pulse slowly returns to its normal pace. I want to turn and make a joke about how close we were to getting shot, but Husk has already picked up his tools and has a blank expression on his face. I do the same at get to work.

It's a hard day – harder than any other before. Oh sure, I have the usual burn in my stomach and ache in my arms, and my wrists are swollen from the strain of smacking the heavy pick-axe through the icy soil, but I also have to deal with the mental torment of what's going on back at the Beckett's.

It's cruel because I usually pull myself through the hardships of the day by distracting my self with thoughts of Ptolemy. I'm doing the same now, but it's entirely different. Instead of imagining kisses and caresses, I see him glassy eyed and stiff with his mother crying at his side.

I grit my teeth and hack and the ground even harder, forcing the images from my head. It doesn't do any good as they're back maybe five minutes later.

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><p>When the day comes to an end and Husk and I start the long walk home, there's an unspoken urgency between us that we don't have to explain. If the day has been torturous for me it must have been just as hard for him, knowing that his own son lies critical and there's nothing he can do about it.<p>

We don't speak to each other once, and our pace is as fast as we can make it – which isn't particularly so considering the physical strain of our work. My knees feel locked and my ankles swollen, and the cold bites into my fingertips. I've always hated the cold. It reminds me that the reaping is near.

A swell of workers floods out of the gates with us and I briefly consider again how different we all are. Most of those who live in District 11 have darker skin and hair, but not all. The Beckett's and my family, for example, do not. Neither do the Johnson's down the road, who are more of an olive-y tan than anything else. No, we don't all look the same but we have something in common.

Apparently District Eleven was originally set up to be the place where all of those who weren't native to Panem were sent, after the great destruction and the formation of Capitol. The 'Ethnic Minorities'. That's why we look like such a mix, whereas people in the other districts supposedly don't. I don't know where that means I come from. I look the same – genetically – as anyone you would pull from Capitol.

_Yakobovitch_. My family name. It certainly sounds foreign anyway.

I once asked my mother why we were different, and she said she wasn't really sure. She said that her grandmother – my great-grandmother – had said we were from a far away nation that many people didn't like.

It can't have been any worse than the one we live in now. I wonder if it still exists?

By the time we reach the Beckett home door I'm almost running. My heart is racing again, and fingernails claw at my guts and heart as I pause at the entrance, almost too afraid to go through. Husk Beckett gives me a look, before pushing through wordlessly.

I follow.

Kernel stands at the door, and I look for signs of distress.

I see none.

Instead, he seems… perky.

"Papa!" He smiles, grabbing his father's arm. "Papa, he's awake!"

_What?  
><em>

I'm in the next room in a second to see if this is true, and I almost sink to the floor when I see it is.

He doesn't necessarily _look _any better. He's still has the deathly pale pallor and waxy look about him, and he has dark bruises under his eyes, but he's _awake_. He's conscious! That's got to mean something, at least!

"Baby," I murmur, my voice husky with emotion, as I charge over and bury my neck in his head. All of the stress of the day and the anxieties roll off my back and I feel light headed for a moment. To my chagrin I feel tears of relief slip past my cheeks. As a rule of thumb I try not to cry about Ptolemy's condition in front of him, as it could be detrimental on his own mental strength. I can't really help myself today though, and so I cling to his neck and sob until I ache.

Ptolemy slips a hand around my waist – slowly, as if it requires effort – and nuzzles the top of my head. I try to pull back and sort myself out, but he shakes his head, wanting me to stay.

I cry some more.

When I'm done we sit in silence, arms wrapped around one another, shivering slightly with the damp and the cold.

"It was… that… bad..?" He manages after a while, his voice croaky and his breathing heavy. His eyelids also sag a little, as if he's exhausted.

"Oh you know how I worry," I attempt to dismiss his question, but I know he can see right through it.

You can call him naïve, and even child-like if you want – he has missed out on an important development process by growing up pretty much isolated from male company, after all – but Ptolemy is not an idiot.

"I'm… going to be… fine this time. Promise. I can feel it."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-hmm. It doesn't hurt so much now. And… I woke up… quicker than last time."

"That's true."

"Just in time for… the reaping," he jokes, but I don't laugh.

I don't even want to think about the reaping. Ptolemy has woken up, and our priority is getting him better, not worrying about the highly unlikely.

Even so, that rattling ball filled with the slips of paper is never far from my mind.

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><p><strong>Not so much of a good ending there. A fill in chapter, if you will, to establish the characters a little bit more. <strong>

**So I came across the problem of ethnicities in District 11 whilst on the Hunger Games Wikia. Turns out I missed the part where the majority of those that live there are of African-American or Amerindian descent, and that the system of having them all together is vaguely supposed to represented the slavery of old times. HOWEVER, I jumped on the 'majority' part, which still implies that not all of these 'ethnicities' were of those ancestries. Because my characters clearly weren't black in the first chapter (and it would be difficult for me to change it all now) they will stay as they are. **

**I figured that it wasn't unlikely for a certain other country to be a part of the 'undesired' group (not my words, alright?) and hopefully Dana's last name will give you a clue. See if you can work it out through the brief references I will make. **

**No, it's not Russia. **

**And yes I am aware that American-Indians are the only ones native to America, but Dana wouldn't be. For her, she's just been told that District Eleven is for 'foreigners and undesirables.' **

**Reviews please. Thanks for those that did. **


	3. The Reaping

**Back again. Sorry for the wait.**

**Gave Rue a last name. It's a planty one. Hope you approve.**

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><p>.<strong>:Chapter Three - The Reaping:.<strong>

A few days later and the reaping is here, and far too soon for my liking. Ptolemy still hasn't recovered, and although he can stand with some assistance he can't take any steps. Fortunately, we can transport him to the reaping square using an old contraption Husk built when Ptolemy first started experiencing his extreme attacks. It's effectively an old chair with wheels built onto its base with a lot of old wood and modifications. It's very rickety and uncomfortable, and a medical wheelchair would be much more effective, but the District 11 hospital doesn't have enough to give them to everyone who needs one.

"You look pretty," Ptolemy tells me as I start to help him change into his reaping clothes, having already donned my own. I wear an old dress of my Mother's from when she used to have to dress herself for reapings, and so it's worn but still wearable. It's pale pink in colour; with a collared neck and a blouse-like top that poofs out into a fuller skirt at the waist. I've worn it for the past two years, and it's getting a bit short, but Ptolemy still thinks to compliment me. I bend over and kiss his curls in response.

"You haven't done your hair yet," he points out as I help pull his trousers up over his waist; a difficult procedure as I have to both mind his leg and lift him up from his chair as I do so.

"Nope," I puff, as I strain to keep him up. Mother always tells me that if I got enough food in me I would be as strong as an ox, with my broad shoulders and long legs. But I don't get enough food in me, and so I struggle to lift my incapacitated boyfriend, who at this current moment probably weighs less than I do.

"There you go," I pant as I set him back down, and he does the buttons up himself.

"The shirt's a little big," he muses as he pulls at the faded fabric, covered in patches from where holes have had to be mended.

"A little, but you look fine."

He looks up and smiles.

"And so do you."

"So you've said."

I notice Husk and Pip standing at the doorway, a freshly combed and for once clean Kernel at their side. I quickly run a hand through my unkempt hair in an attempt to neaten it up a little bit, before grasping the handles on Ptolemy's chair. We hear the siren signalling that we should start making our way to the square, and the almost immediate tramp of footsteps that follows. Although everybody is almost always ready before the signal goes off, nobody wants to have to start moving until they absolutely have to, choosing to put off the inevitable until the last possible moment.

I see Pip grasp quickly at her husband's hands, and Kernel starts to shake a. I clench tighter on Ptolemy's chair and follow Husk as he sets out the door.

We make it in good time considering the difficulty in manoeuvring Ptolemy's chair. The ride has been an uncomfortable one for him, as the wooden wheels give no room for suspension, and he has felt every jar and jolt. I know that Pip and I will search him later for any signs of bruising with hawk-eyes.

Pip and Husk are forced to say good-bye as we approach the registration stand, where a long line of potential tributes has already formed. I pull Kernel close to me and push through the crowds, calling out for people to make way for our invalid. When our time comes I push Ptolemy up to where the Peacekeeper at the stand is waiting for our blood samples.

He glances down at Ptolemy in surprise, scanning an eye over his suspended leg. He looks as if he is going to say something, before changing his mind and grabbing for Ptolemy's hand.

"Please be careful, he's a haemophiliac," I try to say, but I'm only halfway through the sentence when the Peacekeeper has jabbed the needle into Ptolemy's finger and pressed it down onto the form with no further thought. I think resentfully of the problems this may cause for us later, but am careful to keep my anger hidden, producing my own hand.

Kernel takes hold of Ptolemy as soon as we are through, and I wordlessly embrace them both and hurrying to the female over fifteens section before I feel the jostling of Peacekeeper deciding I am taking too long. It only takes a quick glance to work out that the square is heavily guarded this year, with half as many Peacekeepers as there are people. And those are only the ones that can be seen. Who knows how many others could be lurking behind columns, or even dressed in plain-clothes disguising themselves amongst the crowds? I was once told that District Eleven had the heaviest Peacekeeper presence, and I can see why it might be true.

The crowd settles, as the heavy doors of the Justice Building swing open to reveal our District Mayor, District Representative, and the unlucky tribute's future mentors, Chaff and Seeder. They make an unlikely grouping, with the gaudy colouring of our Representative, Parmella Dravy, a stark contrast to the dark and worn skin of Chaff and Seeder. Seeder's age is also apparent, and she walks with a shuffle. Few people in District Eleven live to an old age, and so it's strange to see her. It must have been the rich pickings as a result of winning a games that has kept her nourished and relatively healthy.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the 74th annual Hunger Games!" Parmella squeaks into the microphone set in the centre of the stage, her unnaturally wide eyes, lined in green, rolling wildly with the scattering of applause. I notice that she has changed their colour this year to a ruby pink – another strange modification the Capitol must offer. Her skin is still the same pale green as last year, and her wig a deep purple, but it looks as if she has been tattooed as well, with sparkling gems dotted across her cheeks in some unnatural replacement of freckles.

"Before we announce the lucky two of you in the crowd today, let us watch a video brought to you from our glorious Capitol!"

The Panem anthem starts its upbeat tune, and the promotional video depicting the birth of our nation after the first uprising plays it's familiar rounds. It is the same one we're shown every year, but repeated exposure doesn't make it ring any more true. Parmella watches transfixed as always, and dabs tears from her eyes as it draws to a close and the screens revert to showing images recorded from the cameras dotted around our square.

"Wonderful, truly wonderful," she sighs as a few more tears slip through, her hand pressed to her heart in some sort of ridiculous salute. "You are so very blessed to be allowed under the protection of our great Leader, and it is something you must always make sure to be grateful for."

Next time I'm forced to dig through the dirt grubs and roots to feed my family I'll make sure to remember that.

"Now, it is time to select our female tribute!"

I feel the crowd around me tense all at once, and I join them. This is the moment we have all been waiting for although not for the right reasons. I feel my heart rate speed as Parmella skips over to the reaping ball, and dip a hand inside. My name isn't in there as many times as some others, I know, but I'm still fearful all the same. Parmella shimmies her hand through the tiny envelopes tauntingly, before plucking one between her long nails and whipping it open. She reads it with a smirk, before glancing teasingly at the crowd.

"And the female tribute for District Eleven this year is…."

Please not me. Please not me.

"Rue Verdura!"

Collectives sighs of relief in their hundreds, and mine is one of them. I'm not going to pretend to be sorry for Rue Verdura because I'm not. I'm just thankful that the name called wasn't mine. I do feel a twinge though when I see Rue make her way to the stage. She's tiny, and can't be any older than twelve years old. I'd bet my rations this was her first reaping as well. She won't stand a chance.

"Excellent, excellent!" Parmella cries, as she stands Rue to the right of the microphone for all of Panem to see. To her credit she looks very calm, although her eyes look a little wide and her hands are knotted tightly in front of her.

"And now to call our male tribtute!" Parmella sings, and I tense up again. I no longer fear for myself, but for Ptolemy and for Kernel, whose names are in that ball too many times for me to be comfortable. My hands knot in the folds of my skirt and I bite down on my lip. Hard.

"Our male tribute for this year is…" Parmella muses as she rustles amongst the slips, pulling one of them out at random. She unfolds it slowly and I have to force myself to calm down. Ptolemy and Kernel have the odds on their side. They'll be fine.

"Ptolemy Beckett!"

* * *

><p>Contrary to popular belief, time does not slow when you experience something horrible. I would know. Time did not slow when I discovered my Mother had undergone a forced abortion at the hands of the Peacekeepers as a result of their twisted scheme for population control. Time did not slow when I watched the only sibling I ended up having die within the first few months of her sorry existence after Mother's milk ran dry and there was nothing left to feed her. Time did not slow when I witnessed poor Martin Skeeter publically shot through the head for stealing a pair of night vision goggles, even though he wasn't sane enough to know better.<p>

And time doesn't slow now.

Ptolemy's name rings through the square, and I hear the collective sighs of relief again, but mine does not join them.

My stomach drops. My hands begin to shake.

No. Please no. This can't be happening.

From somewhere in the boy's section I see Ptolemy emerge, as white as a sheet, his face still clammy and his neck unnaturally flushed. Kernel has hold of the chair but is pushed aside roughly by a pair of Peacekeepers who manoeuvre his chair with little care as they force him towards the stage. I hear a whispering of discontent as District Eleven catches sight of their poor, stricken, invalid of a tribute who can't even get to his feet, but it is quickly quelled with the aiming of the Peacekeeper's rifles.

Ptolemy winces as he is rolled roughly over a loose stone, jarring his leg, and something in me breaks.

There is no chance of Ptolemy's survival. He can't even walk for himself, and fighting back isn't even an option. But if I go with him… if I go with him I can make sure he won't die alone. I can't save him, but I can even give him a dignified death if I have to. It's crazy, and it's stupid, and I'm not thinking straight, but it's what I want to, no, HAVE to do.

"I volunteer," I say, but I am incapable of raising my voice above that of a whisper. Am I really going to do this? "I volunteer," I try again, but again I am too quiet, and only those nearest to me hear.

I begin to shake, and I feel a hand on my shoulder. A girl I vaguely recognise tells me how sorry she is, but I brush her away.

Deep breath, Dana.

Am I really going to do this? _I must_. Can I do this? _I have to_. For Ptolemy. But what about Mother and Father? They've already lost one child, they can't cope with losing another.

But Ptolemy. He wont last a few minutes on his own.

It's a massive sacrifice. But I love him enough.

Another deep breath. I steady my hands. I raise my head.

"I volunteer!"

I shout it this time, and it echoes loud and clear around the square. A thousand heads turn towards me, and from my position I can see Parmella Davy's purple stained mouth drop open.

"I volunteer!" I shout it again, and break my position, pushing past countless other bodies to make my way to the stage. A strong hand clamps down on my arm and I am jarred to a stop by a fierce looking Peacekeeper, who looks up to the stage for instruction.

I see Ptolemy turn towards me, his face paled in horror. 'No' he mouths, but I shake my head. I have to do this. I can't let him go on his own.

"Well… erm… obviously you would be replacing Rue here…" Parmella begins, and I see a flash of hope in the young girl's eyes. I feel good about that. I probably won't be able to save Ptolemy, but I can save her. "Then… come on up!" Parmella re-composes herself into her chirpy exterior, and the Peacekeeper pushes me forwards. I mount the steps to the stage and feel my stomach drop through my abdomen. I am going to be sick. "Let us all give a big round of applause for our second District Eleven representative!" There is a scattering of applause of course, but it feels half-hearted, and I can see through my blurred eyes that nobody is clapping with any feeling.

"Tell us your name." Parmella demands as she forces me in front of the microphone, and I swallow hard.

"Dana Yakobovitch."

She looks a little bit confused. "And what is your relation to this boy here?"

I open my mouth to speak, and then remember what I told the Peacekeeper from a few days before.

"My fiancée."

There are some gasps, but the loudest comes from Parmella. She looks positively ecstatic, her hands clasping in excitement. I glance at Ptolemy and he stares back blankly. I know he's confused, but I will him to understand and wait for me to explain.

"Ooohhh what an eventful spanner in the works! This looks set to be a most interesting year for District Eleven, doesn't it people!" Parmella perks, before wrapping her arms around our shoulders and pulling us close together.

"Happy Hunger Games you two," she wishes us, and it would appear that there is some feeling behind it. "And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

I look at Ptolemy, and he looks at me. He reaches out and slides his hand into mine and a tear runs down his cheek. The odds couldn't be with us any less.

* * *

><p><strong>Review, por favour :) <strong>


	4. Goodbye & Luxury

**.:Chapter Four - Goodbye/Luxury:.**

We are forced into a small room together where we are told to wait whilst our families are fetched for a short and final goodbye before we are bundled off to the Capitol. The heavy wooden door has barely swung closed behind us when we are in each other's arms, with me bent uncomfortably in order to manoeuvre myself around the contours of Ptolemy's chair.

"Dana-" he begins to choke, but I cut him off with a hush. I don't feel like talking, like explaining myself. I just want to hold him and relish these few last moments of semi-normality that we will likely ever experience. I feel his hands entwine in my hair and I bury my nose in his neck. I feel scared, and hopeless, and I can't really fathom what I've done, but at the same time I know I've made the right decision. My parents will still have each other to rely on after the games, and the Becketts will still have Kernel. But without me, Ptolemy would go into that arena completely alone, condemned to a certain death. And without him there is no way I could ever continue in this miserable district, where the love and friendship we have shared is one of the few pleasures I am allowed to have. As weak and as feeble as it sounds I will readily admit that I depend on him. And he depends on me.

I pull back and look into his eyes, watery with tears, and I know that I don't _need _to explain, that he already understands. As he cups my cheek in a shaky hand I know that there is a mutual comprehension between us that this was something that I had to do, and that he would have readily done the same were we in reversed positions. There's no point in discussing it any further.

A heavy knock at the door startles us both, and it swings open to reveal the families of us both flanked by two heavily armed Peacekeepers.

"Five minutes," one of them barks, before she pulls the doors closed behind our visitors without much further ado.

There are a few seconds in which nobody says anything, with us simply staring across at each other from the opposite ends of the room, before Kernel breaks the silence with a heart wrenching sob and flings himself at Ptolemy's feet. It moves everybody else into action, and I suddenly find myself bundled between the bodies of my parents as they cling to me desperately. There are tears in their eyes as they hug and hold me but they are careful not to let them spill over, as if they think it might help me in some way.

"I'm sorry," I tell them, but I am quickly hushed.

"Just… just… make sure you come back," Mother stammers, stroking the same cheek as Ptolemy had. "You have a good chance honey, just believe that."

I swallow a lump that has formed in my throat and nod, although I don't agree. I might be able to fend off the other under-privileged children from the poorer districts of Panem, who will have as little preparation as I do, but I don't stand a chance against the cold-blooded killing machines spawned from the career district's brutal academies. Rumour has it they receive training in all arms as soon as they can walk. Having watched every games since my fourth birthday I can easily imagine this to be true. The winning tributes are usually always careers.

Fending for Ptolemy as well as myself is not going to help my cause.

My Father claps a hand on my shoulder and grips it tightly, looking at me with the same funny coloured eyes as my own. Blue around the outside with a yellow-ish ring in the middle. They're probably the only thing about me that stand out, and the only beautiful thing in me that can't be covered with layers of grime.

"I love you, Dana." He tells me simply, without any further decoration of my chances, and I am grateful for it. I pull him into a hug and relish the strength of his embrace for what could be the last time, before I pull away, conscious of the time. We can't have much more than a minute left, and so I take both of my parent's hands in mine and turn to face the Becketts.

They are doing much the same, embracing in a ring and devouring their last few moments. I feel a stab of sorrow as I watch them, knowing it must be harder for Ptolemy's family than mine to let him go. At least mine can hold on to a shred of hope knowing that I could have a chance – tributes from lower districts have survived before, after all. What hope can parents have for their crippled, immobile son who could drop dead at the simple knock of a knee? None at all.

The door is thrown open again and I feel my stomach drop. This is it. Time to say goodbye, for real. I pull my parents close to me and hug them tight as the two Peacekeepers force themselves into the already crowded room, before letting them pull my parents away. My Mother keeps my hand enclosed in hers until the very last moment, when we are forced apart, and I see her tears begin to fall as the door swings shut behind them.

Within seconds the Peacekeepers are back, this time to escort out the Becketts. Kernel screams as he is pulled away from his brother and Ptolemy starts to shake uncontrollably, his hands fisted in his brother's shirt. I move over and unclench them myself, speaking out when he tries to resist.

"Let him go Ptolemy. You need to let him go. You're only going to make this harder."

He looks up at me desperately, but lets go with a whimper as his resignation registers. Ptolemy has never been the best at controlling his fear, where as I can do a relatively good job of it.

"Dana!" Husk suddenly calls my name as his is forced out of the door with his arms restrained behind his back. "Look after him Dana! Bring him home!"

* * *

><p>Bring him home. A simple request with an impossible resolution. I cannot bring Ptolemy home, no matter how hard I try. I didn't volunteer to keep him alive, I volunteered simply so that he wouldn't die alone.<p>

* * *

><p>The next few hours pass by in a blur. We are transferred from the Justice Building to the Station, where a train lies waiting to whisk us to the Capitol, but are forced to endure a half-an-hour journey by car in between, accompanied by our own Parmella Dravy. I am not one for judging people based on their first impressions, but I can tell that our Representative's presences is not going to be one I will enjoy. She is the epitome of the Capitol stereotype: overzealous, over-enthusiastic and chirpy the extreme, with a high squeaking voice that grates on the nerves enough without the silly toffed-up accent to top it all off. One thing I will give her credit for is the way she treats us as people of District Eleven. We are supposed to be minorities, and so even more unworthy than a usual district citizen, but she seems either blissfully unaware or chooses to ignore this.<p>

Then again, she's probably just looking for us to put in a good word and get her a promotion.

I've never travelled in a car before, and so the experience is a strange one. It's sort of like a wagon but a lot more smooth of a ride, and much more comfortable on the inside. I can't help but run my hands over the smooth fabric of the interior. I have no idea what it is, but it's not something I've ever felt before. I feel as if I'm sullying its luxury simply by sitting on it.

But when we near the train, that's something different altogether. In a world where I have experienced only the most meagre of technologies, and houses built from rickety woods and congregated iron, the smooth contours of this strange machine are something completely alien to me. It's front resembles the shape of the bullets the Peacekeepers use for their guns, but with a smoothed front rather than a tip. It's long – longer than I imagined, and exists as a single structure rather than having separate carriages, like the supply trains do. It doesn't appear to have wheels either, but hovers above the iron tracks by some unseen force. Paned windows of blue glass stripe from it's front to end, although it appears that the front-most sector contrives of more glass than the rest – perhaps to give the driver a better view?

It's abnormality and beauty stuns me into silence, and momentarily relieves me of the knowledge of what the next few weeks are going to have in store for me.

Parmella catches my expression – and that of Ptolemy's, which is unsurprisingly similar – and twinkles.

"Just wait until you see the inside! You haven't seen anything yet!"

She's right. If I thought the exterior of the train was impressive then the inside can only be described as glorious, and that's not I word I have use for very often. The first thing I notice is the thick maroon carpet that is so rich in colour and luxurious in its texture that I almost feel inclined to remove my dirty old boots before stepping onto it. The metallic walls shine with polish, but consist mainly of the strange windows, which I notice don't appear blue from the inside. It's fully electrified, and I marvel at the hanging lights; electric light is a wonder in itself, but it's the fittings around them that are the most noteworthy. The bulbs appear encased in a mobile of regular shaped crystals that throw sparkling light throughout the carriage, and Parmella tells me their name: _Chandeliers_. The word sounds expensive in itself, and unlike one I've heard before.

I am surrounded by so much luxury that I struggle to take it all in. From the chandeliers to the dark wood tables, and ostentatious vases and countless other decorations that adorn them, I am overwhelmed, and I clasp at Ptolemy's hand in an attempt for some stability. I take in his wide-eyed expression and presume he feels the same way. The luxury and the expense are dizzying, and far beyond what we could ever have imagined. I had always known that the Capitol residents lived lives of lavish, but this is something else. This is something beyond my wildest dreams.

But the splendour comes with an edge, and I soon feel bitter as I continue to examine the room around me. I and every other citizen of District Eleven have lived a life of hardship and misery, where our definition of luxury is falling asleep with a half-filled belly of food. Where we're lucky to find items of clothing that aren't either riddled with holes or infested with lice, and where nobody lives as long as they should do. Why is it that this train alone contains enough riches to adorn what I'd bet to be every one of us at home? If the Capitol has this much to give for a hunk of metal, why couldn't they share any with us? Why are we forced to live our lives as undesirables, and suffer such extremities? I had always wondered if our hunger was a result of Panem shortages, but now I can see this isn't the case. It makes no sense to me.

Parmella notices the change in my attitude and quickly escorts us to our living quarters. Ptolemy's room is next to mine, for which I am grateful, although we quickly make it clear that we intend to spend our nights together. Parmella seems a little dubious to start with, but after we re-assure her that our intents are innocent, she relents.

"A waste of preparation," is her only complaint, but she dutifully leaves us to ourselves, chiming for us to prepare for dinner.

I fall back on the bed of a softness I can only relate to the appearance of a cloud, and pull Ptolemy up with me, snuggling in his arms. For a while we don't even speak to one another. We are too overwhelmed by what has happened and what is yet to come.

"This room alone must be double the size of the ground-area of my house," he comments after a while, and I nod in agreement. Mine too.

"How's your leg feeling?"

"It's alright," he grunts, shifting it a little. "Sore, but better than yesterday. It hurt a bit after that great oaf of a Peacekeeper wheeled me up to the stage but I've forgotten about it, really."

I smile at his feeble attempt at humour, knowing it was what he was hoping I would do. I obviously don't do it very well because his expression shifts to one of both sorrow and remorse.

"I know you probably don't want me to say this but…" he begins, and I exhale, knowing what's about to come. "You shouldn't have volunteered, Dana. I love you and… I can't bear that I've pulled you into this."

"Don't think like that," I tell him firmly, rolling onto my side to face him. "You didn't pull me into this, the Capitol did. The Capitol and myself. This was a decision _I _made so don't you go and feel guilty."

"But I do," he breathes, and his eyes wet with his easy tears. I hug him tightly and kiss him hard on the lips.

"Do you really think I would've ever let you come out here alone?"

"No, and I know I would've done the same thing if it had been you up there… but even so…" he grips my hand and doesn't finish, and I know he's hurting.

"Come on," I nudge him in an attempt to distract him. "Let's go to dinner. I don't know about you but I'm not quite ready to experience Parmella's accent when she's angry." I don't want him dwelling too much on the games just yet. I want to make his last few weeks as enjoyable as I can, even if that seems absurd in the general light of things.

"I imagine it to be most unpleasant."

"Then get your bum in gear and get changed," I tease, with a forced brightness I'm not sure I possess. "I don't know about you but I'm _starving._"

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews make my day :) <strong>


	5. Arrival

**.:Chapter Five - Arrival:.**

I quickly learn that the Capitol is something to be disliked, but I do oblige to give them credit for their food. The first exquisite meal is followed by one culinary masterpiece after the other over the duration of our two-day journey, and my tongue learns to enjoy flavours that, like with the decorations, I could never have dreamed existed. For the first time in my years as a District Eleven resident my tongue can tingle with the taste of a simple Orange – I have seen and aided in the growing of so many, but yet I have never been allowed to try one for myself. Strange animals are roasted and presented to us on platter after platter, some of which I have never even heard of. I know cows, lamb, and chicken as they are native to our district, but never before have I seen a 'duck' or any kind of fish. The meat is proper as well, not the fatty, stringy remains we are forced to suck from the bones back home – if we are lucky enough to have come by those at all. Even the vegetables are wondrous and flavourful, and so beautiful compared to those we occasionally receive in our District. The tomatoes are perfectly round, unnaturally so, and the carrots firm and bright with no rotten edges to file away.

I am also given my first taste of 'alcohol' – something I have heard of but never fully understood. A quiet servant of some sort who hovers around the dining cart pours me a glass of the ruby red substance, and Parmella explains it to be 'wine.'

"It's good fun," she tells me perkily, her crystalline 'freckles' twinkling in the dimmed electric light, and looking almost pretty. "It will make you feel giddy and happy. But don't have too much of it or it can make you ill."

It makes me feel giddy all right, and brings a flush to my cheeks I can only relate to the one I get after working in the fields in the height of summer. I find myself giggly and unstable, and the cart lurches around me as I struggle to see straight. Parmella whisks my glass away after I have finished it, saying something about how a lifelong lack of food must have sent the drink straight to my head. I learn afterwards that Ptolemy refused his offering after seeing the effects it had on me. I suppose making him more unstable than he already is would only prove dangerous and not fun in the slightest.

I feel less giddy and more ill the next morning, and Ptolemy is forced to endure my vomiting in his bathroom, which ruins the experience.

"Ugh," I groan, rubbing a sweaty forehead. "Never. Again."

"I do sympathise," he tells me, rolling his chair over as close as it will manage. He's been struggling with it a bit on the carpeted floors, and it's still rather uncomfortable, but Parmella has promised that we will receive a proper one as soon as we reach the Capitol. He shouldn't need it in the arena, however, as Parmella tells us a sickly tribute is no fun. The Capitol is willing to provide Ptolemy with temporary treatment and a shot of Factor IV before the games start, but after that wears off he's one his own again.

On the second day of our train journey we are also introduced properly to our mentors and former tributes, Chaff and Seeder. My first impressions are not too hopeful; Chaff seems too rowdy and a little bit violent in nature, and his encouragements to 'fight it out' aren't particularly helpful. Neither me nor Ptolemy are ever going to be fighters. Seeder is more helpful in that she gives us good directions on how to find shelter, and some important survival tips.

"Never, EVER, light a fire, unless you absolutely have to." She tells us solemnly, explaining why. "Lighting a fire is the quickest way to get yourself noticed. The smoke will give you away in the day and the light will do the same during nightfall."

"Then how do we get food? How do we cook?" Ptolemy asks.

"The best option is to utilise the vegetation around you. Look for berries and nuts if they are available. In most climates there is some form of fauna that you can eat. I'll give you a guide at some point to help you."

"If you're lacking that," Chaff butts in, "and you have only meat, then of course you will need a fire. Absolutely do _not _eat anything raw. Raw meat contains diseases that can cripple you in a matter of hours, and that's not what you need. Nothing more unpleasant than shitting out your insides and fending for your life at the same time." He grins at this, but neither Ptolemy nor me respond.

"If you get to that point then make sure you light a small fire in an enclosed environment if you can, like a cave or somewhere with shelter, so as little smoke as possible plumes into the open. And always stamp them out afterwards."

It turns out there is such thing as a smokeless fire, although it sounds a little complicated for us to achieve. Apparently, what we need to do is create a fire that burns quickly by burning only small twigs that are constantly fed into the fire. This will mean that one of us has to do this whilst the other cooks, and that's even if there are small twigs around. It's also best to do this under a tree – although not near a trunk. We don't want a wildfire on our hands – so the branches above will disperse what little smoke there is.

It's not that hard to remember, but Seeder urges me to make sure I practice lighting fires when we're in our training sessions in the Capitol. She assures me that there is always a fire lighting stand.

"Are either of you familiar with any sort of weaponry?" Chaff asks next, although I can tell he already knows the answer to that. Ptolemy and I shake our heads, and he sighs, sharing a look with Seeder.

I hate the idea of them giving up on our chances before the game has even started, so I jump in with some suggestions.

"I'm not completely useless," I tell them quickly. "I work in the fields so I've had to handle a lot of heavy equipment. I've also uses scythes, which can be classed as a weapon, right? And I've swung around picks and ploughs before. Swinging around a sword can't be that much different?"

"It gives you a slight advantage, yes," Chaff explains, "but I'm not going to lie to you – handling a weapon is an art that needs skill and practice to master. You have none of that. You may be able to fend yourself against lesser trained individuals like yourself, but you wont stand a chance against the careers."

I already knew that, but it still sends a shiver of fear down my spine, and makes me feel helpless.

"So that's it then," I say bitterly. "We don't stand a chance. We just die."

"Not necessarily," Seeder is quick to sooth. "You're not fighters but you may be able to use other tactics. Don't hang around when the games first begin. That's when all the real fighting happens and when most tributes are killed. As soon as the gong goes to signal the start, run straight for shelter and put some distance in between yourself and any others. That's your safest bet."

Ptolemy clears his throat, and nods at his leg. "What about me?"

"Parmella has already told you that you will receive treatment before the games. You'll be given a shot of Factor IV by the medics. It will be dosed to only last a few days, but you will be in near-perfect shape during then."

Ptolemy looks unsure.

"I've had shots before you know, and they helped but they didn't work magic."

"Yes, but you've never received Capitol medication. They developed a permanent cure for your affiliation years ago, but they wont give you that."

"Why not?"

"Because you mean nothing to them, and why waste good medicine on a minority?" Chaff's words are harsh but he says them with enough bitterness for us to know that they don't come from him. I look at his arm and wonder whether he was refused a prosthetic for the same reasons. He follows my gaze and shakes his head with a grin.

"No no, they offered me a replacement for this all right," he assures, reading my mind. "I just didn't accept it. I don't want anything of theirs, and besides, it makes me feel like a warrior."

I am quick to learn that Chaff is a lover of fighting, and a bit of a troublemaker himself. I remember it being said that I was only the second volunteer from District Eleven, and I find out that Chaff is the first. Not because he wanted to take anybody's place, or accompany a loved one of his own, but because he relished the idea of a fight. I wonder if he regretted it once he got there? I don't particularly want to ask.

When our impromptu greetings-cum-training session is over Ptolemy and I head to the front most sector of the train, which – contrary to my initial presumption – is not an area for the driver, but rather a viewing platform. The train apparently drives itself, although I'm not sure how this works, and so the extending glass is to provide a view for guests instead of a worker. We sink into a cushioned chair together, and quietly watch the landscape whizz past too fast for us to properly focus on. I can shake the sense of dread growing ever heavy in my stomach; I'm overly conscious of how close we now must be to the Capitol, and I can't quite shake the look Chaff and Seeder shared when we told them we had no weapons training. I've been fearful enough in the past two days, but now reality seems to be hitting me harder than before. I can try to forget about the upcoming games whilst surrounded by distractions in the form of woven bed-sheets and plentiful foods, but I wont be able to do that in the Capitol. Not where I'll be surrounded by the other tributes, constantly reminded of my feeble chances.

Ptolemy seems to feel the same way, as he is subdued and forlorn for the rest of the journey.

We arrive at the Capitol later that afternoon. Parmella gives a shout and trips into the viewing room shouting about gussying ourselves up and looking presentable for the waiting crowds. We are allowed only a glimpse of the city before she drags us from the windows and back to the rooms.

I can't aptly explain what I saw as it confused me more than it amazed me. There were tall towers, lots of them, looking as if they were made completely from glass and smooth edges. Everything gleamed and glinted in the sunlight, and I could see flying specs that I presumed to be hover cars.

"Wasn't it beautiful?" Parmella asks me as she pushes me down in a chair and faffs around with my hair, smoothening down some fly-aways.

I nodded more to please her than anything else. It wasn't beautiful to me, because I couldn't work out what it was.

We're told that at the Capitol our looks will be tended to properly, in preparation for our parade. Even so, having stepped under the only proper shower I have ever encountered in my life, my hair feels softer and cleaner than it ever has before. It smells nicer too, and the colour is different, with it having been hidden under layers of grime, sweat and a straw like consistency as a result of unhealthy living. Ptolemy hadn't seemed able to stop running his hands through it as we'd lain in bed.

Five-odd minutes later, and we disappear into a dark tunnel that Parmella tells us is the entrance to the grand station. She pulls me and Ptolemy to the windows, urging us to look out for the crows and make ourselves known.

"EVERYONE who is anyone will be here to see you two," she explains, playing at my hair again in a last minute jitter. "Your district isn't usually a popular reception, with preferences being for the careers and all. But _this _year you two have really made a stir with your reaping. Quite the love story, and we do love those in the Capitol!"

A _love story? _Is that what this is?

The darkness prevails for a few more minutes, and then we are pulling into the Capitol station.

Parmella is right; our arrival has really drawn the crowds, and I take an involuntary step back at the sudden appearance of hundreds of screaming faces writhing in a mass of bright colour and grappling arms. They press as close to the railings as they can, and I see fights and struggles between spectators as they all clamour for the best view in the most un-civilised way possible. It's animalistic, it's a frenzy, and it reminds me of the madness seen on the screens before the likes of President Snow or some celebrity fashion icon. For the first time I truly comprehend how _loved_ these games truly are. I guess I had always secretly hoped, and even to some extent _believed, _that the hype surrounding the games in the Capitol was maybe as feigned as it was in the districts. That maybe the residents pretended, as we did, to hold them in high regard, but secretly turned away and felt the same sickening disbelief as we did. But now I can see that is not the case. The joy and the jubilation on the crazily painted faces on the other side of these tinted windows are real, and I can't understand it. I had thought all human beings to be the same, in essence. To be able to care, to have a conscience, and to find horror in the death's of others. But I see none of that here, and it makes me ill. These people genuinely enjoy our slaughter, all in the name of a form of perverse entertainment, and it makes my stomach roil.

In the end, I have to turn away.

This is no love story, this is inhuman.


	6. New People

**.:Chapter 6 - New People:.**

"Hold still, tribute. You're making this harder than it needs to be," my newly appointed and white coat clad 'beautician' barks as she yanks yet another strip of my apparently profuse leg hair from my limb with a tear of a wax painted strip. My body jerks involuntarily, and I am forced to clench my teeth and blink back at the tears threatening to spill through my lashes. This _hurts_.

The beautician _tsks_ and turns away to slather another load of wax on a fresh strip of fabric, her coiled green hair swaying with the motion. I had found it fascinating at first, wondering how she got the long ropes of braid twisted around into a cone on the top of her skull to stay in place, and how long her hair must be for such a do to be possible. Then it just became alarming as I remembered that this was the lady in charge of my own appearance – a matter in which I apparently had little say.

"Sorry," I mumble, shifting uncomfortably on the hard surface I am lain across, only a thin towel between me and the cold metal of its exterior. Like most things that I have seen in the capital the beauty parlour clearly favours metal in its design, with the only alternate materials in sight being the glass coverings to the extensive light system across the roof and the fabric curtain separating me from whoever is receiving the same treatment next door. The parlour is gender segregated, with the male tributes further down the long corridor of booths similar to mine. I wonder if Ptolemy is undergoing the same hair removal process as I am.

A small shriek from the next booth over makes me think that the girls at least are all getting the same treatment, and a second later it's joined by my own groan of discomfort.

"Such a fuss you are making, tribute. Just think of how lovely and smooth your legs will be!"

"The only smooth legs I have ever seen have been on a baby."

"Really?" She seems surprised, cocking her head on one side and regarding me with glittering purple eyes for a moment. "What about your mother? Surely she keeps her legs in shape!"

"No… we don't really have the time or resources for that in District Eleven." I regard her quietly as she shrugs and continues, wondering how much she actually knows about the outlying districts. Clearly not very much if she thinks a people often denied the everyday necessities of food and rest would actually bother with the hair on their legs. There's nothing wrong with a little leg hair anyway. It keeps you warm at winter.

It's not long before she's moved on from my legs and onto my eyebrows, and then my underarms – the latter arguably more painful than any of the others combined. It's when I feel her pull at the towel covering my lower body when I really react.

"What are you doing?" I gasp, pulling it back up to re-cover my exposure.

"Waxing your pubic hair, of course," she sighs, making a move to snatch it back. I grip the soft fabric even tighter.

"Why!?"

"Same reason as I waxed the other places. To make you hairless." She says it as if it's obvious, but I'm horrified at the prospect.

"But why would you need to do that!? Nobody is going to see down _there."_

"Now, you can't know that can you. You never can predict what might happen in the arena! Besides, you have a fiancée don't you?"

"Yes but… but…" I don't know what to say as I've never had to have this conversation with a stranger before.

"But nothing. Now stop squirming. This is happening whether you like it or not." She whips the towel from my waist with a flick of her wrist, and raises her eyebrows knowingly. "And sweetheart, you _need _it. Trust me."

Over an hour later and we are well moved on from the waxing, although I still can't get over the alien feel of running my palms up and down a smooth pair of legs. I can't seem to stop doing it even as I'm sat in a hard backed chair in a new, multiple seated room with three more beauticians buzzing around my head with various potions, devices and sprays that waft around me in a toxic cloud. I cough a few times, before an orange haired lady brings me a small fabric mask to fasten over my face with a piece of elastic.

"Don't want you getting a chest infection before you go into the arena, do we?"

"I don't think it would really make a difference, if I'm honest."

"Oh nonsense," she _tuts_, smacking at my leg. "Besides, even if you don't win you're going to look beautiful whilst you do it!"

I blink. Is that supposed to be a serious form of encouragement?

The whir of an overhead heater being lowered over my skull indicates to me that my hair is almost ready, and I feel a twinge of nervousness even though Green-hair assured me that I would only be receiving a 'deep clean' and a trim. It's the styling I'm more concerned about, what with all these rollers twisted through. As far as I am aware we're only supposed to be heading to our apartments after this, but I'd rather do so looking like a semi-respectable individual , not a piece of frosting on the pretty Capitol cakes.

"You just sit still for a moment," orange tells me, giving my hair a final pet. "And I'll be back in ten minutes to take all of these out, okay?" I nod and she seems satisfied, giving my freshly tidied nails a final blow before skittering off to some other errand. It was a pink skinned man who had been in charge of the nails, and I'd learnt there was such a thing as buffering, shining and shaping nails, rather than just keeping them short. He also coated them in a clear, goopy substance he told me would ensure they grew 'super quickly' in time to be styled for the tribute presentations.

I take my sudden solitude as an opportunity to have a look around at who else is in the room. There are about twenty seats like my own lined up against the wall, but only a few are occupied. I can see a fair haired guy seemingly asleep in his chair about ten down from where I am, and gather he must be a career by his huge, bulging muscles and wholesome, healthy looking tan. It's only him, myself and one other girl – two seats down on my other side – who don't have attendants running around us by this point. She is the complete opposite of career boy; dark haired, very skinny and with a pinched face, I can tell she must be from an outlying district like my own. She's not sleeping either, instead staring at the wall directly ahead of her with a slump in her shoulders and a certain resignation that confirms to me that she is not one of the tributes looking forward to the upcoming games. Her expression is dark, and she looks to me like a girl with a million things running through her mind – and none of them pleasant.

I have an urge to talk to her, and find out who she is. Whether it's a strange sense of solidarity with another person feeling like myself or a sheer need to feel like I'm doing _something _about the games (Seeder and Chaff have already told me that simple conversation with a person beforehand can easily lead to familiarity and even an alliance in the arena) I decide to bite the bullet and make an attempt at conversation. It's not as if either of us have anything else to do, anyway.

"Hi." I say loudly after a moment's hesitation, tapping nervously at the armrest of my chair with my new nails. She doesn't respond at first, glancing over only fleetingly as if unaware that she is the one being addressed. When she notices me looking at her she seems surprised, before her posture immediately changes to one of a girl on edge.

"I'm Dana," I continue quickly, "from District Eleven. How about you?"

She stares for a moment, wary and watching; as if trying to analyse why I might be speaking to her or whether I will be a threat. Her gaze is intense and I feel uncomfortable, but I don't let it show.

"Katniss," she says shortly after a while, her voice low and husky. "I'm from Twelve."

"Another outlier then. Coal mining, right?"

She nods, still analysing, her gaze not shifting from my face. She's not hostile, exactly, but she's not far from it, and it bothers me a little bit. Surely she can see that I am hardly a threat, and I'm in the same position she is.

"You don't have to be so defensive, you know. I'm only trying to strike up a conversation." I say it lightly but I'm only half joking, and she picks this up this right away. Her eyes narrow and she turns away with a sort of wry bitterness that makes me wish I hadn't said anything to start with.

"I'm sorry if I'm finding it hard to have a 'conversation' with someone I'm going to have to kill."

We sit out the remainder of our treatment in a hollow silence.

"Tadaa!" Green-hair sings as she whips me around to face a long mirror set into the tiled white walls of the salon, pulling her hands back from over my eyes so I can finally get a look at my final presentation. It genuinely takes me a few seconds to realise that the reflection in the mirror is my own, and when I do I almost take an involuntary step back with the shock of how different I look.

The girl in the mirror has a head of long, gleaming and golden curls that fall around her shoulders like a glittery waterfall, not ashy, muddy and grease streaked frizzles that can go up to a year without seeing a brush. Her skin is not only smooth and flawless, but it _glows_ and I can appreciate for the first time all of the scratchy lotions and painful massages. Like the hair, it feels as if a new skin tone has emerged from under the years of build-up and dust that must have ingrained itself into me at some point, and I have to raise my hand to my face and check the reflection does the same to actually make sure it's me.

A few minutes more pass and I still can't say anything.

"Unbelievable isn't it!" Green hair is positively floating with her glee, her purple lipsticked grin stretched so wide it looks as if it will fly off the ends of her face. "And we didn't have to add any colour at all! This is all natural," she boasts, stroking a loose piece of hair back behind my ear. "Who would have thought such a lovely shade of blonde would be hiding under all of that… dirt."

"Who would have thought such a lovely _girl_ would be under there," the orange haired beautician corrects her as she steps up to join us. "Darling when I first saw you I thought making you presentable was going to be a challenge but…" she trails of and sighs in satisfaction, cupping her hands under her chin.

I can only nod. The girl in the mirror is _beautiful. _I am _beautiful_, and it's such an alien feeling for me to feel. I've never thought much for appearances before, but that can only be because I've never thought much of mine. But now that I see how I could have looked for all of these years… I suddenly never want it to go away. Feeling good about yourself isn't common in District Eleven, and for the first time, gazing at my reflection in front of me, I am allowed to taste that feeling.

"Don't cry sweetheart, your eyes will swell," Green hair dabs a tissue under my eyes and I notice that I have let a few tears sleep through.

"I'm sorry," I speak for the first time. "I'm just…"

"Overwhelmed? Yes darling, that happens a lot here. Especially with the young girls from districts like yours…" she sniffs and appears to fight back a tear or two of her own. "It's such a lovely feeling, knowing that I have done this for people, you know? If it weren't for me you might never have gotten to experience this. It's such a wonderful thing we do here, it truly is."

Not even my beautician's self-promoting delusions can ruin my mood, and I walk through the next few minutes of final touches and dressing with my head in a cloud. The beauticians give me a new set of clothes to 'compliment my new appearance' – a pair of heavy fabricated and skin-tight 'jeans' that are so dark blue they almost appear black and a soft red top that is both loose enough to feel airy and light, yet tight enough to accentuate my figure. The clothes only add to my alien appearance, and I feel as if I have stepped out of my old life and into a new one. One where this new beauty isn't just a preparation for the cameras on my death bed, but an everyday norm.

Sat in the car on the way to the tribute accommodation I can't stop lifting my hands to touch my hair. Parmella has to resort to swatting at me with the fashion magazine she is reading every time I try in an attempt at dissuasion.

"Dana! Stop touching it or it will lose its volume… how many times have I told you now!" she sighs, flicking at me for the tenth time in a minute.

"Sorry! Sorry! I just can't help it! It's so smooth…"

"Yes well, don't you want it to be 'so smooth' when Ptolemy sees it?"

"Is Ptolemy back?" I ask eagerly, sitting up in my seat. I hadn't seen him when I'd left the parlour, so maybe he had finished already. There's less to do with a boy, after all.

"He will be getting back just now, I estimate. He finished his session at the parlour very early of course, but then had to go and have his injections…"

"Injections?" I interrupt, suddenly very alert. "You mean his haemophilia treatment?"

"Yes, that's the one. He should have finished them by now."

"So… he'll be walking? And ok?"

"Only for a short while," Parmella reminds me, petting my knee. "They will wear off at the beginning of the games, remember?"

I nod, remembering what I was told about the Peacekeepers not wanting to give Ptolemy an 'unfair advantage.' It's still a sore point in my mind. Giving Ptolemy the ability to _walk _is not an advantage – it just puts him on the level of the other, weaker tributes like myself. Probably below that even still. It's not exactly as if he's ever had the chance to work on muscle development.

I spend the rest of the journey silent, arms crossed around me and hair forgotten. I'm nervous to see Ptolemy which is stupid; it's just that I've never seen him… _normal _before. Even when he hasn't been in an episode he's still had to be ridiculously careful about what he does… but with this injection he won't have to be! Not for the next few weeks at least.

The accommodation building looks just like the rest in the Capitol – a tall glimmering mass of metal and glass, but adorned with various flags and banners boasting it's hosting of this year's tributes. Parmella leads me through the lobby and towards what she explains to me is an 'elevator.' It's effectively just a giant box that moves you up to different floors by use of strong magnets and pulleys. It would be fascinating were it not somewhat scary. What happens if the magnets and the pulleys fail? We plummet?

We're on floor eleven – they are correlated according to District – and we are up within thirty seconds. The doors ping open and yet again the luxury of the setting overwhelms me. It is built from the Captiol's favourite materials (metal and glass, of course) but furnished with a thick, red carpet and round edged furniture to soften it. The roof is adorned with several of those crystal _chandeliers _like from the train, with the light in the centre glinting from the hanging pieces and scattering prisms of light across the white walls. A ring of black couches nestles within a sunken square in the centre of the room, and it is here that I see Ptolemy sprawled across a very soft looking and very giant red cushion.

He glances up as we walk in and his gaze flicks over me as if I am someone that he cannot recognise. When that recognition finally occurs, I can hear his gasp from across the room and his mouth falls over with the shock. As quick as a flash – and quicker than I have ever seen him able to move – he is on his feet.

"Dana!?"

I am self-conscious all of a sudden, and hyper aware of myself. I can only stand and blush as he moves over, aware that Parmella has melted into a corner somewhere to give us our privacy.

"Hey," I say stupidly, overwhelmed by the way he is looking at me. It's as if he is seeing me for the first time, and I realise it must be almost as shocking as it was for me when I first looked in the mirror.

"You look so… different," he breathes, bringing up a hand and touching my hair tentatively, before running it over my cheek. My skin tingles at the touch and I move a little closer. I haven't liked being apart, not in this unfamiliar city, and not when our time together is limited.

"I know, it's crazy. I'm… I'm… _pretty. _Really pretty."

He lets out a sharp breath and shakes his head, a small laugh bubbling at his lips.

"Oh Dana. I've always told you how beautiful you are. Maybe now you will listen to me."

"Enough about me," I decide, stepping back once more and giving him a one over. "You're walking! And you don't even have a limp!"

He grins and nods excitedly, taking my hands in his.

"I am! And it's amazing! Look!"

He jumps on the spot lightly, and then from one leg to the other, and can feel his happiness crackling in the air around him as he experiences for the first time what I have always taken for granted. Basic mobility. His mood is contagious and soon I am leaping around with him, and then we are racing around the room in a high speed game of chase and catch. The game doesn't last too long, as Ptolemy tires quickly, and we fall back onto the centre of the black couch in one another's arms, red in the face and panting wildly. Ptolemy hugs me hard and I relish in the fact that, for the present, I can hug him back as such.

"This is amazing, Dana," he breathes, and I look over at him; eyes closed, cheeks flushed _healthily, _an expression of perfect happiness, I want to hold him in my arms and preserve this moment forever. _This _is the boy my Ptolemy deserves to be. _This _is the life he should have always lived, not a dreary, dark existence holed up in a wheelchair waiting for his next dance with death.

But it it's not to be, and my euphoria wears of quicker that his. I can see he is doing the same thing I was, up in front of that mirror with my true self displayed to me for the first time. He's pretending it's going to last, this happiness, and pretending that it's not just a preparation for what is yet to come. He is pretending the games do not exist and that we are not two tributes facing our imminent deaths.

It brings me down to remember, and I am jealous – for a second – that I have had to come down before he has. But I won't disturb his peace, and I won't deny him of his moment of happiness. So I keep pretending and lie still in his arms as he drifts into a doze.

* * *

><p><strong>It's been a while. I'm very sorry. Reality has been calling.<strong>

**Please review! It motivates me to update faster.**

**P.S. - My pen name has switched from RageRomania to Voivode**

**- V x **


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